


to tame that wild heart.

by astronaut (avioxe)



Category: Produce 101 (TV), X1 (Korea Band)
Genre: 3+1, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Second Person Narration, best friends to lovers to...., dreamscape narration, prince & vassal concept
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 16:04:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21340954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avioxe/pseuds/astronaut
Summary: You're cutting your hands on the roses, drowning at the bottom of the river, and this time you throw off your crown but — will it work? Does he come back?Or, from Wooseok: Three memories and a dream — or is it three dreams and a memory?
Relationships: Cho Seungyeon | Seungyoun/Kim Wooseok | Wooshin
Kudos: 14





	to tame that wild heart.

**Author's Note:**

> i have a bigger storyline for this!!! i just dont have time to write it... this is the thorn on the rose of the story. wooseok is the 'you' in narration!

* * *

_You loved someone all your life. He never loved you back._

_Well—that’s not necessarily true. Maybe he felt the same way, once, before the kings came and the fury dragged you under. Maybe you could have kept him from leaving, had you told him sooner_.

_Now, all you have left is memory: that once by the roses, you tackled him into the thorns; by the river, he slipped under and vanished in the water. That time on the throne, when he looked at you wearing the crown too-big for your head. Smiled. Turned away. _

_You miss dreaming. It’s the only escape you have from those memories, too painful to keep but too precious to throw away. _

_You miss it. It’s how it should have been, you think. What you should’ve had. _

_Because in your dream, he kisses you back. Even when his mouth is full of blood. Especially then. _

_ **i. ** _

That rose-garden again. He’s standing at the edge of it, his white clothes a spot against the red of the flowers, the bushes rising up on three sides and you on the fourth. The sky so impossibly blue it hurts to look at. Small in the peripheral; unmissable when you focus. You see him the way dreamers do: not quite real, not quite there. You see him before he does.

You tackle him into the thorns. When they rake at your skin you do not bleed; when your chin hits his shoulder it does not hurt. He laughs, warm like sunlight. His hands lace in your hair, wrist brushing the nape of your neck.

This place — this garden — is the place you've come since you were both still boys. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. Where you tanned your hands in the sun reading books, the rest of you covered up to keep your skin light, and he basked like a lazy cat, his smile a taunting, livening curve. Where he kissed you that one and only time under the moonlight, the glance of his eyelashes against your cheek like a butterfly's broken wing. You feel a warm bloom in your chest, that he would come back to see you here. 

“Welcome home,” you rasp. “I knew you’d come back.”

His face is sharp and soft and blurry all at once. When he lifts his head to whisper, his lips touch the helix of your ear, and even in this limbo your body shudders, reacts to it. He sighs.

“Now” he rasps, something in his voice a little sad, “wake up.”

** _ii._ **

The water sings of something long ago, something you can’t remember no matter how hard you try. Sticks in your brain like a splinter, a familiar, itching ache. He’s back there again. By the river. He turns to look at you and you focus on his hands, his shoulders, the curve of his calves — anything but his face.

“You’re here?” You whisper.

He laughs in response, extending his hand. You watch the flex and curl of his fingers, the tendon beneath the skin in his wrist, ladylike, welcoming.

You take his hand and fix you eyes on his face for the first time. He’s looking at you with the softest look in his eyes, one you’ve only seen in your fantasies, half-baked daydreams when you were sixteen or seventeen. He’s looking at you the way you’ve always wanted him to, but somehow it feels not _real_ enough, and you feel bad for even wanting more —

And he falls into the water.

You feel the shock of cold as you’re pulled in, his fingers hooked tightly around your own hand, and you only half-register that fever chill. It’s more that you watch him, eyes half-open, waterlight across his face, smiling at you.

_Seungyoun_, you try to say, but only bubbles come out of your mouth. He pulls you close, his fingers icy on the back of your neck but strong. Sturdy, grounded. Permanent. He brings your face close to his, leans in.

And he grins. “Now,” he shouts, “wake up!”

_ **iii. ** _

All you’ve ever wanted: a crown, a name, and a boy. Now you have one in your hands and one in someone else’s mouth, and you’re looking at one more, his eyes dark and quiet like the stones in the bottom of the river.

The gold weighs heavy in your grasp, and you savor it. You’re the only one left who can wear it, and even though the blood hasn’t faded from your dreams entirely you still think about the satisfaction of pulling it off the last man’s head.

You’re sitting on a throne now, in a grand room, the sunlight filtering in from the stained glass, the ceiling high and arched and marble-white. The entire place marble-white. The boy marble-white. You crown yourself because there is no one else to do it. The boy’s eyes follow as you place it on your head, deftly, quickly. There is no priest, no prayer, no adoring crowd. No formalities.

He watches you. There’s no coronation, just you and him and the space between you both, and it isn’t what you’ve fantasized about but if he would only come closer—

That would be all you’ve ever wanted. 

“Wooseok,” he says, starts and then stops, looking at you. Takes one step forward, than another. Something in his gaze has gone cold and hard, no longer that lover in the moonlight with the soft hands and butterfly lashes. “Your majesty.”

_Are you happy? _His eyes ask. _Was it worth it?_

“Wait,” you say, something frantic and _lonely_ curling in your stomach, closing in your throat, “Isn’t this everything we’ve wanted?“ and the crown slips over your eyes, knocking down on the bridge of your nose painfully.

And he’s leaning over you, he runs his fingers under your chin, across your cheek. Leans in, presses his mouth to the corner of yours—

your mouth goes dry, your chest tightening, painful, aching, desperate

— and he laughs.

“Now,” he says, “wake up.”

_ **iv. ** _

This time in your dream, you try to do it over. Kiss him at all the right times, tell him you love him. Wash off the guilt and say, _no, not your majesty. Call me Wooseok._ You're cutting your hands on the roses, drowning at the bottom of the river, and this time you throw off your crown but — will it work? Does he come back? 

This time in your dream, you see that boy you love. You tell him that. You kiss him. He kisses you back and his mouth is full of blood. Before you can save him, he bleeds for you and falls. When you pick him up in your hands he's lighter than the crown you think you held, once. Maybe never, if it was real. You hold him close to your chest, rock back and forth; you press your hands to his face, your ear to his chest, your heart to his survival. You hold him close and you beg. 

"Wake up," you say_, "wake up now." _

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> :))) twt @02astronaut, i check DMs if you're down to shoot one and talk about writing/x1/writing x1!!! honestly i need writing buddies this is my favorite hobby


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